The Luck of Fools
by Imperium42
Summary: AU set during A Storm of Swords. En route to the Twins, Lord Jason Mallister intercepts a letter from Tywin Lannister to Walder Frey regarding the planned Red Wedding, and the course of the war is changed beyond remedy. Points of view will change on a chapter-by-chapter basis just as in the books, with chapters from Jason, Sandor, Robb, etc. Sansan will occur at some point.
1. Chapter 1

**JASON**

Lord Jason Mallister stared dispassionately at the map in front of him, and the letter lain out on top, a frown crossing his clean-shaven features. The three men before him shifted uncomfortably, and but for the steady drum of rain on the canvas tent's roof, silence reigned until at length their liege spoke.

"Wait? Lord Frey wants us to sit here in this bloody downpour while half the men in the north _and _my son are feasting themselves sick at Lord Tully's wedding?"

Ser Jerym Haigh cleared his throat and stepped forward, his house's sigil, a pitchfork on gold bar sinister on russet glowing softly on his steel plate armor as it reflected the light of the brazier burning behind Jason.

"My Lord, the Freys do not mean to spite you. You have been trusted with an important task, escorting the King's own lady mother to safety after the wedding, and I suspect that Lord Frey simply means to make this easier for you. I say we hold here as he says."

"And what do I tell my men?" Jason retorted, his frown growing deeper. He had marshaled a thousand of his best soldiers, as well as his own company of guards, to safely escort Lady Catelyn back to Seagard after the wedding as King Robb had commanded, but every man was expecting that they would be able to attend the feast with Robb's other bannermen. "We brought neither rations to sit here and wait, nor enough tents to keep more than a quarter dry in this downpour. Stopping here was enough of an inconvenience on its own; I'll not accept this, Ser Jerym. Lord Walder will simply have to understand."

The knight opened his mouth to say something else, but then thought better of it and stepped back, his arms crossed and his thick eyebrows furrowed. Jerym Haigh was an intimidating man, taller than most, with short, tufted black hair, a beaklike nose, and coarse salt-and-pepper stubble that did little to conceal a jagged white scar running down his jawline, a souvenir from the Battle of the Trident. Jerym, only nineteen at the time, had been squire to the commander of the Targaryen's reserves, a force several thousand strong composed mainly of peasant levies at the back of the Royalist battle lines. When the tide of the battle began to turn in Robert's favor, Jerym turned traitor, stabbing the commander to death in his tent and convincing the levies to follow him in a surprise attack against the Targaryens' exposed rearguard, earning himself the nickname "Turncoat" in the process. Now trapped between two armies, Rhaegar and his van were forced into a close-quarters melee with Robert and his, ultimately leading to the crown prince's untimely demise by means of Robert's warhammer.

Jerym was knighted after King's Landing fell for his actions at the Trident, and six years later, he fought valiantly at the Siege of Pyke, rushing through the breach alongside Robert himself after Thoros of Myr and Jorah Mormont. After Balon Greyjoy surrendered, Jason could scarcely refuse the knight when he pledged himself to his service, appreciative of the opportunity to create ties with one of Lord Frey's vassals. Much like Robert Baratheon and Ryam Redwyne before him, however, Jerym, while a keen swordsman and cunning tactician, was ill-suited to life outside of battle, drinking heavily and often seeming cold and distant while at Seagard. He was polite enough when he needed to be, and fought ferociously when he was asked, but as time passed, Jason became more and more certain that he had pledged himself for politics, not out of respect. Perhaps he was too hard on Jerym, but what Lord Frey was asking of them was ridiculous.

Ser Martyn Tallhart, a tall, lean knight with a thick brown facial hair and a fatherly look about him, stepped forward next, and Jason's scowl softened as the man placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. In the Siege of Pyke, while Thoros, Jerym Haigh, and Jorah Mormont were rushing through the tower breach at the head of Robert's van, Martyn, along with Jason, Ned Stark, and his brothers, Helman and Leobald Tallhart, led a party that used a ram to smash through the main gate. The already renowned knight had saved Jason's life more than once as they battered the door down, taking two arrows meant for the lord of Seagard, one with his shield and one with his chestplate.

Jason repaid the favor in kind once they were inside, knocking aside a slash meant to take Martyn's head off, and pulling the knight, armor and all, back onto solid ground when Greyjoy retainers cut the ropes of a bridge he had been crossing. When the battle was done, Martyn pledged himself to the service of House Mallister before the Seastone Chair just as Jerym did. A month later, in place of his late father, Martyn asked Jason's permission to take the hand of his sister, who had been widowed in Robert's Rebellion, and so when Jason accepted the two had been bound as brothers as well as comrades.

"Jason. Stop and think. You _know _Walder Frey. Above all, he is a proud man. He's commanded Robb Stark, his _King,_ to apologize to his person for marrying that Westerling girl, and I'm honestly shocked that he didn't demand more. Do you really think that slighting him again, even if he's making a foolish request, will help? If the King in the North and his lords bannermen are both insulting him, it might be enough to make him start thinking that maybe Tywin Lannister would make a better ally."

Jason was confounded at that, and with a grunt he turned to the third man in the tent, whose face was all but obscured by an eagle-head helm of embossed steel. His armor was of a matching set to the helm; of the three men he was the only one who was armed, with a sword sheathed at his hip and a crossbow of lacquered maple and gilded silver strapped to his back, over a thick purple cloak.

"Gods damn Walder Frey… Torrhen, tell the men to set up camp as best they can, and send the archers and crossbowmen out to hunt for game for dinner. But if Lady Catelyn hasn't arrived by this time tomorrow, Freys be damned, I'm riding out to the Twins myself."

It was near evenfall, and the incessant pounding of rain on the canvas had slowed to an infrequent tapping, when Jason's squire burst through the tent flaps with a red-faced and puffing crossbowman in tow. Willem Manderly was a pale, lanky boy of thirteen, with long, straight brown hair that ran down to his shoulders and a wisp of a mustache on his upper lip. The crossbowman looked more like a Manderly than Willem, however, with a wide barrel chest and thick red whiskers. He was currently bent over, wheezing and pointing in Willem's direction; the squire was even more pale-faced than usual, his eyes wide and his hand shaking as he offered Jason a wrinkled letter.

"What's this?" Jason asked to neither one in particular, his eyes shifting between the two as he took the letter in hand.

The crossbowman finally straightened and faced Jason, still panting intermittently as he spoke.

"I… I was out in the woods, milord, near the road, lookin' for game… and I shot down a big ruddy crow… or I thought it was a crow… but it was one of them ravens, and it had a letter on its leg… I took it off and checked the seal, thinkin' it would be for you, milord… but I know the Lannister lion when I see it."

That certainly caught Jason's attention. _If we've intercepted enemy battle plans… _He leaned forward in his chair, watching the crossbowman intently.

"Go on."

"Of course, milord. So seein' as I can't read, I ran fast as I could to your squire, Willem here, knowin' he was more of an educated sort. When he broke the seal and read it, he went pale as a White Walker, and dashed to your tent quick as he could, milord."

Glancing down at the letter in question, Jason turned it over in hand, noting the broken red lion seal of the Lannisters, and above that, written in crimson ink, _Regarding the Wedding of Lord Edmure Tully and Lady Roslin Frey. _Frowning as he once more opened the already folded and wrinkled paper, Jason Mallister read the letter, and forgot to breathe.

_Lords of the Crossing and Flayed Men,_

_The two wolves and the trout should arrive shortly. You would do well to catch yourself a trout and a she-wolf, but the young wolf must be put down, along with his companions. I find your terms agreeable, and will shield you from judgment. I await your word. _

_The Lion_

Jason was on his feet before the discarded piece of parchment hit the floor. He didn't need to read the message again to understand its meaning, or the sender and recipients. Keeping his face a mask as he retrieved the Mallister family longsword, Reaversbane, from a chest at the back of the tent, he turned to Willem and the crossbowman, gesturing with the point of the Valyrian steel blade.

"Soldier…"

"Lyonel, if it please milord."

"Lyonel, marshal the men. Tell them to mount up, and send the Silver Eagles to me. We ride for the Twins as soon as possible. Willem, help me with my armor and cloak. If we make it in time, I'll knight you both myself."

The Silver Eagles of Seagard were some of the best fighters in Westeros. Each man of the select fifty was chosen for their cunning, bravery, and prowess in battle from among seasoned veterans, and each man had sworn an oath of loyalty to the Mallister in Seagard. Ten years ago, when thousands of Greyjoy men-at-arms were landing beneath the castle walls, and the proud Mallister fleet was being torn apart by Ironborn longships, and the great bronze bell of the Booming Tower was thundering out its warning call for the first time in three hundred years, the Silver Eagles were the only thing that kept Jason alive long enough for him to slay Rodrik Greyjoy, and send his men back into the sea. At Pyke, the Silver Eagles stormed through the smashed main gate alongside Eddard Stark and the three brothers Tallhart, and their liege lord in his gleaming silver armor; they were the first to reach the throne room, the ones to whom Balon Greyjoy yielded before he bent the knee to Robert.

And so they stood before him now, all steel plates and purple cloaks and eagle helms. They were all amount on strong young coursers, their swords and ornate crossbows ready; their commander, Ser Torrhen Mallister, known by his men simply as the Eagle, rode before them on a great black destrier, gazing about to make sure that all were present. Torrhen, the man Jason had sent with the order to make camp, was his younger cousin, and an accomplished warrior at that, earning his knighthood at The Battle of the Bells, where he singlehandedly held back ten and slew five of Jon Connington's retainers before the doors of the town sept. A mane of dark brown hair much like Jason's fell out the back of his helm, and he looked nearly identical to the lord but for a carefully maintained, spade-shaped beard.

"Lord Cousin, my men are ready. We await your word."

Jason nodded, taking his own armored chestnut destrier to a canter, and riding around front of the elite fifty; he waited patiently as Martyn and Jerym assembled the other thousand mounted men-at-arms in formation behind Torrhen's company, calling out to those he knew by name.

"Silver Eagles!" he finally boomed when all had arrived, his eyes roving over every man. "Men of Seagard!" He drew the letter from a pouch in his flowing purple cloak, and held it high over his head. "This letter is proof of a grave truth! Walder Frey and Roose Bolton have betrayed us, and conspire with Tywin Lannister to murder our king, at his lord uncle's own wedding!"

A great clamor went up among the men, with shouts of death for the Freys and Boltons, and rallying cries for the king. Torrhen, Martyn, and Jerym quickly silenced them, and nodded for Jason to continue.

"But hear me now! They do not know it yet, but these foul conspirators have already failed! We will ride to the Twins, we will bring the false lords Frey and Bolton to justice, and _we will save Robb Stark!" _

Jason's words had the desired effect. One thousand and fifty men raised their swords and bellowed out their assent, and somewhere towards the rear they began to chant, the shouts growing until they echoed through the forest around them.

"THE YOUNG WOLF! THE YOUNG WOLF! THE YOUNG WOLF!"

The men continued the chant as they turned and began to gallop to the Twins at a breakneck pace, shouting until their throats grew hoarse. Alongside Jason, Martyn and Torrhen had even taken up the chant, grinning; behind them, Jerym rode on in without a sound, however, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. Sometime later, when the thunderous roar of the mounted company had finally died down into a determined silence broken only by the raging, swollen torrent of the Green Fork at their right, the twin castles of the Freys finally became visible in the growing darkness, two distant shadows looming over the flooded river.

"Martyn", Jason called over the sound of hooves and gushing water, "Take the men and give battle to the Boltons and Freys wherever you find them in the camps; give those traitorous dogs no quarter. Torrhen, Jerym, with me; I want the Silver Eagles at my back."

Martyn nodded, falling back towards the main company to take command. Torrhen raised a gauntleted fist in the air, and the Silver Eagles formed up behind Jason, their weapons at hand.

Few of the reveling northmen bothered to look up as they galloped into the camp beneath the West Castle, drunken as they were. The drawbridge was already lowered, and the portcullis open; Jason rode across without resistance, Torrhen and Jerym at his sides and the Silver Eagles behind him. Leaning hard into his destrier's mane as "The Rains of Castamere" began to boom from the castle, he donned his eagle-winged steel halfhelm and drew Reaversbane. _And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? _Torrhen and Jason on their great warhorses had outpaced the others, and burst into the main hall first, alone, to find utter chaos. Robb Stark had quarrels in his leg and side, Catelyn one in her back. She was screaming, but for the thundering sound of the Tywin Lannister's song, Jason could not hear what. Frey men were falling on the Young Wolf's guards as they attempted to defend their king, their steel gleaming in the torchlight; above it all, Walder Frey sat on his throne, drinking the scene in greedily, his eyes on the slaughter unfolding in front of him. _Only a cat of a different coat, that's all the truth I know. _Jason was the first to charge.

"SEAGARD!" He bellowed as he rode down a mob of Freys surrounding Robin Flint, the Valyrian steel flashing grey then red as limbs were parted from bodies. Edwyn Frey was the first to notice the unexpected intruders, a look of panicked shock crossing his face before Jason's destrier reared and smashed it in. _In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still has claws. _That drew the attention of nearly everyone in the room, even Lord Walder, whose wispy brows furrowed in confusion as Torrhen put a quarrel through Ser Raymund Frey's back, and Jason sent the head of Hosteen Frey sailing through the air to land at the court fool's feet. The rest of the Silver Eagles had arrived now, filling the hall and blocking the other entrances. _And mine are long and sharp my lord, as long and sharp as yours._

"Shoot them, you fools!" Black Walder Frey roared to a group of crossbowmen in the musicians' gallery, but by then it was too late. At a motion of Torrhen Mallister's hand, fifty quarrels _thrummed _through the air towards the gallery, and the music died as suddenly and confusedly as the balcony's occupants. Another gesture and the Silver Eagles rallied to Robb's side, cutting through any Frey men in their path before forming a moving circle around the wounded king, shooting down anyone that drew near. While Torrhen led the circle, Jason made for Lady Catelyn at the other end of the room, where she lay bleeding on the floor with a quarrel in the small of her back, feebly groping for a dagger before her. Black Walder stepped in his path, savagely thrusting towards his horse's throat with a greatsword, but Jason turned the destrier away with the facile grace that came with riding in countless melees and jousting tilts at tourneys, and swung Reaversbane hard and low, near cleaving the man in two. Catelyn Stark wordlessly took Jason's hand when he offered it to her, and with a grunt he lifted her onto the horse behind him. She clung to him with fierce, silent tenacity as he rode for safety, her small hands digging into a gap in his plates as she trembled uncontrollably in the rear of the saddle.

"My lady." Jason said gruffly, setting her down as gently as he could at the center of the ring of horses, next to young Willem Manderly, who was doing the best he could to stem the bleeding where two, no, three quarrels jutted from Robb's limp body. Dacey Mormont and Smalljon Umber crouched by him, the former cradling her king's head in her lap and the latter looking rather helpless. Robb feebly turned his head to look at his mother beside him and Jason looming above him, and opened his mouth. A trickle of blood flowed out, and if the Young Wolf said something then, Jason could not tell for the sound of crashing doors.

Ser Ryman Frey led the company of axemen that had burst into the room, but before he could give any commands, a quarrel took him in the leg, and he fell to his knees with a grunt. The Silver Eagles continued to bombard the axemen with their crossbows as they cantered around the king in the center of their formation, until finally the Frey men mounted a disorganized charge, ragged battle cries at their lips. Without a word from any one of them, the fifty horsemen broke out of their circle, formed into a wedge with Torrhen at the front, and rode hard into the midst of the enemy, swords in hand.

While The Eagle and his men made quick work of the Freys, Jason swung off his saddle to kneel at Robb's side, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Your Grace. We came as quickly as we could. How grievous are your wounds?"

The King in the North gazed up at Jason, his eyes glassy with shock, and once more attempted to speak.

"I'll be… alright… Lord… You…"

Robb fell victim to a fit of coughing, and blood spattered across Dacey's dress and Jason's greaves.

"My Lord Mallister," Dacey said quickly, wiping the blood flowing from the king's mouth with the hem of her dress, "King Robb is in no fit condition to speak right now."

_Of course. What am I thinking, asking a man with three quarrels in him how his wounds are? _Nodding curtly, Jason stood and turned to Willem, frowning.

"Have you seen Ser Jerym?"

His question answered itself when Ser Jerym Haigh walked swiftly into the room from a door at the far end, a man in gleaming red armor and a spotted pink cloak at his side. _Bolton. Does he not know? _Jason began to call out a warning, but the cry died in his throat when he saw Jerym drive his sword through a dying Stark man-at-arms. Swearing softly to himself, he stepped forward, alone, to meet them. Blood ran down the Valyrian steel's ripples in rivulets as Reaversbane slid from its sheath.

"It doesn't have to be this way." Jason knew that his words meant nothing, but they spilled from his mouth nonetheless.

"Yes," Roose Bolton replied in his soft voice, "I'm afraid it does."

Jason never knew who moved first, but before he could think to say another word, he was fighting both of them at once in a flurry of shining steel. Individually, he could best either of them, but together they were driving Jason back slowly but surely, raining blow after blow down on him as struggled to stand his ground. Then suddenly Smalljon Umber was beside him, driving Lord Bolton back and allowing Jason to focus on Ser Jerym. Now that the fight was evenly matched, Jason dealt with the man quickly, backing him against a table in a clearly one-sided duel.

"What did they promise you, Turncoat?" he spat, cleaving Jerym's sword in two with a ferocious blow, and grabbing him by the throat. "Glory? Gold? How much did it take to buy you from me?"

"I was never yours." Ser Jerym Haigh gritted.

Without a word, Jason threw his former sworn sword to the floor and drove Reaversbane through his heart, twisting the blade for good measure. Before he had even drawn his sword from the corpse, however, the Smalljon cried out in pain behind him; Jason turned to find him on the floor, clutching a bloodied stump where his left arm had been cleaved at the elbow. Roose Bolton abandoned his defeated foe and turned to face Jason, his pale eyes shining with torchlight even through the slit of his red helm. For a time the two lords circled each other like Dornish vultures, blood dripping from the tips of their swords and tracing their paths. When they finally came together in a flash of steel, it happened too quickly to be sure who had attacked first. Their deadly dance brought them across the hall and back; one moment, Jason was pressing the attack, and the next he was struggling to block his opponent's blows. As he parried a vicious swing aimed at his neck, Jason found himself smiling; he hadn't fought a foe half as skilled as this since he dueled Rodrik Greyjoy beneath the walls of Seagard. If the Lord of the Dreadfort was disconcerted, he gave no notion of it, his eyes remaining fixed on Jason's.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, as he stepped back to dodge one of Jason's blows, Roose's foot landed in the pool of blood where Ser Wendel Manderly had fallen with a quarrel in his mouth, and slid. For perhaps half a second, Roose's left side was vulnerable as he recovered, but half a second was all Jason needed. He lifted Reaversbane above his head and swung it in a savage downward arc, tearing a gaping rend in Lord Bolton's blood-red armor from helm to midriff. Actual crimson blood began to leak slowly from the gash as both men regained their footing, and with a snarl Roose struck him full in his uncovered jaw with a lobstered red gauntlet. Blinding pain shot across Jason's face like a lance, and out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed his own blood splattering across the dusty stone floor; he could taste more in his mouth. Reeling, Jason stumbled back and tripped on Ser Wendel's corpse, clutching at his bloodied face with one hand and brandishing his sword with the other as he fell hard on his arse. A red steel boot flashed forward; before he could move to dodge it, his hand burst with pain, and Reaversbane flew from his fingers.

Swaying slightly from his wound as he pinned Jason to the floor with his boot, Lord Bolton lifted his own sword, lining up a slash to his foe's neck. He could tell that the injury was beginning to take its toll, though; blood dripped from the colossal rend onto Jason's silvery steel plates, and the Lord of the Dreadfort hesitated before he struck, panting heavily. Seizing the opportunity, Jason grabbed a knife on the floor next to him, dropped during the feast, no doubt, and drove it deep into the gap between Roose's boot and greave. As he withdrew his leg, howling in pain, Jason sprung to his feet, using the momentum to propel himself shoulder-first into the gash.

The sound that Roose Bolton made as the two lords collapsed to the floor together in a jumble of steel armor was nothing human. Jason quickly clambered to his knees, only to be pulled back down by his torn and blood-soaked purple cloak when Roose rolled on top of it and aimed a brutal kick directly into his forehead. His steel halfhelm spared Jason from the brunt of the blow, but he was thrown onto his back once more all the same, and the helm flew from his brow. His now bare head slammed into the stones below, and darkness rushed forward to meet him.

"…Mallister!"

"Lord Mallister!"

"_Jason!"_

Ser Martyn Tallhart was crouching over Jason when his eyes flew open; the man's helm was badly dented, and dried blood was caked in his thick beard from a gash that had split both of his lips.

"Martyn…" he mumbled, taking his friend's hand and slowly righting himself. "…the battle…" The main hall of the West Castle was filled to the brim with bloodied and battered soldiers. For half a moment Jason's stomach sunk with fear that they were Frey and Bolton men, that Martyn had been captured and the Eagle was slain and the battle was lost; then he saw their silver steel armor, and the purple cloth beneath it, and his heart soared in triumph. Torrhen was standing at the front of their ranks, his eagle-head helm tucked under one arm, a smile playing about his lips.

"The battle is over," Martyn finished proudly, "and the king is saved. We have won."


	2. Chapter 2

**HOWLAND**

Lord Howland Reed watched from under a mottled green hood as the faint, bobbing light drew nearer and nearer through the trees, and chose an arrow from the quiver on his back. All around him he could sense the other members of his scouting party doing the same, though like him, they made not a sound; life in the swamps of the Neck had taught the crannogmen the meaning of silence. He motioned to the poleman, and the small, wooden raft inched forward through the film of duckweed surrounding them, the only sign of their motion scant ripples that quickly dissipated. Drawing a small, squat clay cask from his belt, Howland undid the leather latch that bounded the jar shut and drew off the lid, revealing a thick, viscous fluid as black as the night sky above them. Holding his breath, he dipped the flat, bronze head of the arrow into the cask and withdrew it in a single, swift stroke, before replacing the lid, binding it up again, and fastening it back onto his person.

The other five crannogmen sharing the raft once more followed his lead, though their casks were all of different shapes and sizes, each containing a different substance. When children of the crannogs came of age, all of them aspiring to be hunters fashioned their own equipment from scratch, fletching arrows and forging spears, weaving cloaks and crafting bows. When it came to poison, many used dilutions of the drippings collected from the skin of local salamanders and frogs to slowly tear apart an enemy's bowels from the inside, but the Lord of Greywater Watch preferred to give his foes a quick, clean death. Nightstalk mushrooms rose tall, twisted, and ebony-black from mud banks and rotting logs at the heart of the Neck's swamps, with the largest standing at nearly two feet high. Every crannogman alive, though, knew to turn back at the first sign of them, for all were coated in glistening venom for which no cure could be crafted. If any part of a Nightstalk ever entered the body, it meant a swift end for the luckless victim; even brushing up against one led to the afflicted skin rotting and dying.

The poison in Howland's cask was made from ground Nightstalk caps, collected by seasoned rangers with thick leather gloves that were burned after use, mixed with water and crushed nightshade berries. No man so much as scratched by one of Howland Reed's arrowheads had ever lasted more than half a minute, and no man ever would. _Not even the Sword of the Morning, _Howland thought mournfully, lifting his gaze back to the approaching light, and waiting. A bullfrog croaked, crickets buzzed, an owl took to the wing above them, and still the light grew ever closer in the darkness, until Howland could make out the wooden longboat they had spent the past hour tracking. A whale-oil lantern swung lazily from its prow, bathing four Ironborn in its glow: three standing and one rowing. To be sure that none of his men by some chance miscounted, he held up four fingers before nocking the arrow, the duck-feather fletching brushing against his gloves.

"What do you think he'll do when he finds the bog devils' castle?" One was saying, as he polished a notched steel dirk.

"_If _he finds it." The rower replied languidly.

"_When,_" the first man insisted, "he caught the one fucker, he'll catch the rest, mark my words."

"I imagine he'll burn the rotting wooden pile of shit they call a castle with all of 'em still inside," the third one put in, "all 'cept the lord. I'm thinking he'll give that one to the Drowned God, if the men don't tear him to pieces first."

While they all laughed at that, Howland drew, watching the boat and waiting for it to pass directly in front of them.

"I 'ave half a mind to take his wife and see what royal bog devil cunt feels like," said the fourth one, silver and gold teeth glinting in the lamplight as he grinned.

The Ironborn roared with laughter; it wasn't until their mirth had died down that they noticed Howland's arrow buried in the open mouth of the fourth man, so deep that only the duck feathers were still visible. As shouts of shock and dismay formed on their lips, the other five crannogmen loosed their own arrows, and it was over as quickly as it had begun. By the time that they had doused the lantern and driven holes through the bottom of the longboat to sink it, the first lizard lions had already arrived to feast on the bodies of the invaders, rolling and snapping and turning the black water red as Howland Reed and his men melted into the night.

* * *

Dawn was breaking in the eastern sky when Greywater Watch began to loom overhead, a tremendous floating fortress of wood and bronze. Its shape was more or less square, and at each corner thick, coiled ropes lashed to wooden stakes allowed four hulking barges to move the castle in any direction. In the early morning gloom a dozen rafts, poleboats, and floating crannogs bustled around it, carrying soldiers, citizens, and supplies alike; one large wooden poleboat was making its way towards Howland's raft, the Reed banner flapping from its aftcastle. His uncle, Greywater Watch's castellan, stood at the prow, unmistakable even at a distance.

Howland threw back the hood of his dappled green cloak as the poleboat pulled alongside them and lowered a gangplank, smiling a weak smile. Constantly fighting the encroachment of the Ironborn from the west and the Lannisters from the south had drained the life from him, and left him a haggard shadow of the man who had sent Jojen and Meera north to renew House Reed's oaths to Winterfell. Dark purple circles had formed under his bloodshot green eyes, and streaks of gray were apparent in his hair and beard, both of which were already crusted with salt, algae, and mud. Howland couldn't emember the last time he'd washed since he'd heard of Bermarr's death, though he'd cut his lengthy hair short with his bronze dagger, after an Ironborn had grabbed him by it and nearly slit his throat. His dirt-streaked face was drawn, gaunt, and exhausted, sporting several fresh scars to compliment the ones Arthur Dayne had left him; of late, many of his raids hadn't gone as successfully as the previous night's.

The man who walked across the gangplank to meet Howland could scarcely have been more different. Laren Reed was a stout chested, bull-shouldered man, taller than Howland and most other crannogmen by half a head, though merely average by outsider standards. Two thick braids studded with bronze rings ran through his already immense beard, clinking together softly as he walked. The oaken haft of a jagged-edged bronze battleaxe jutted out over his shoulder, half-obscured by Laren's mane of long brown hair. Though he was ten years Howland's elder, he looked five younger, and strong enough to snap his thin, reedy nephew in two; he nearly did when he strode up and wrapped his burly arms around him.

"You said you'd be back at evenfall, lord nephew. We were beginning to grow worried."

"All is well, uncle." Howland replied in a voice raspy with disuse. Silence was imperative in raids, and the habit was proving difficult to be rid of. "We've hunted down most of the scouts that had strayed too far south of the Abyss, and Volmark will be slow to send out more men to search for them."

Laren nodded, stroking one of his beard's braids thoughtfully.

"Good, good. There's, ah, something I must needs discuss with you… in confidence."

As he spoke he looked pointedly at the five other scouts on the raft, and Howland chuckled before following his uncle across the gangplank onto the poleboat. _The Bronze Ox of Greywater Watch has never been a man for subtleties. _A map of the Neck was splayed out across a table in the aftcastle's main cabin, illuminated by the faint sunlight streaming in through a cracked, algae-stained window at the room's rear.

"While you out hunting," Laren began, gesturing to the map, "my own scouting parties brought me word of two ships sailing up the Saltspear and into the swamps, searching for Greywater Watch."

"More Ironborn?" Howland grimaced at the very prospect. Managing the _Leviathan _without Bermarr was taxing enough already.

"No, my lord. These were Mallister cogs, flying direwolf banners. Seems like the King in the North has finally remembered that we exist."

_So Robb Stark has come calling at last… _Frowning, Howland tried to picture the boy, whom he had never met, but in his mind's eye he saw only Eddard. Unbidden memories rushed to his mind, of Ned cleaving a Targaryen spearman in two on the Trident, Ice in his hands, of his laughing face and his deep voice, of his proud, stubborn honor. But most of all, of that round, red tower in the mountains of Dorne, of blades flashing and white armor and white cloaks stained red with blood, of Arthur Dayne screaming Ned's name, and Lyanna screaming Ned's name, and blood, so much blood… It took Howland several moments before he realized his throat was growing leaden, his eyes wet; he wiped them with a gloved hand, shaking his head and hoping Laren hadn't noticed. _Focus. _Now was not the time to reminisce. Ned Stark was dead; his son was Lord of Winterfell, and now King in the North. _Ned would make a better king than any of them, _he thought forlornly, glancing back up at his uncle.

"Any Stark is a friend of House Reed, but we must needs be sure of their intentions before we guide them to Greywater Watch. Have your men hold them where they are; I will set out and speak with these northmen myself. Oh, and tell my steward to prepare a bath. I'd venture that they'll be more willing to treat with me if I don't have a swamp growing in my hair."

The water was scalding hot, but Howland lowered himself into the bronze tub all the same, proceeding to dutifully scrub away the thick blackish mud that coated nearly every inch of his skin and matted hair, grimacing as he inspected his own body. Beneath the grime, the Lord of Greywater Watch had more half-healed cuts and fading yellowish bruises than he could count, and had to dislodge more than one bloodbug with the point of his dagger; his swollen left shin still sported two blood-crusted holes where a massive water serpent's fangs had punched through his worn leather greaves. As he washed, though, his thoughts began to wander from his own injuries to days long past. While Howland couldn't claim to possess the greensight as Jojen did, he could remember nearly every detail of everything he'd ever seen, from the words of the books he had read as a child to the face of the Ironborn scout whose throat he had slit three weeks ago. He remembered the japes Laren had made on the night of his wedding with Jyana, as well the ones he'd made at his own wedding, when Howland was but one and ten. He remembered riding through King's Landing as it burned, and watching two Lannister soldiers rape a comely noblewoman while a third stabbed her husband, a tall man with a sapphire encrusted doublet that they'd ripped from his chest as he died. When Howland tried to stop them, they'd dragged him from his horse and beaten him brutally- they would have killed him if Lord Tywin hadn't ridden past with Sumner Crakehall and a score of guardsmen, and recognized the bloodied face of the man his soldiers were savaging.

And Howland Reed remembered Ned, the nearest thing to a brother that he would ever know. The day scouts brought word of his execution, he'd retreated to his study and withdrawn into his memories, reliving every moment he had ever spent with Eddard Stark for hours on end, until at last Jyana and the children had been able to coax him out. And yet despite all the time Howland had spent laughing and jesting with his friend, the clearest memory of Ned was also the most horrible.

They were seven, against three. Howland had ridden south with the men he had come to love as brothers, Ethan Glover and Mark Ryswell, Martyn Cassel and Theo Wull, the Lords Dustin and Stark. The mountains of Dorne surrounded them, and ahead, at the end of the path beneath their horses' hooves, sat a round, red tower. _The Tower of Joy, Rhaegar called it. _Before it stood the three finest knights Howland had ever seen, their white cloaks flapping in the wind. Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, and grizzled Oswell Whent. Alone, Ned dismounted and strode forward.

"I looked for you on the Trident," he said to them.

"We were not there," Ser Gerold answered.

"Woe to the Usurper if we had been," said Ser Oswell.

"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

"Far away," Ser Gerold said, "or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege," Ned told them, "and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

"Our knees do not bend easily," said Ser Arthur Dayne.

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true," said Ser Oswell.

"But not of the Kingsguard," Ser Gerold pointed out. "The Kingsguard does not flee."

"Then or now," said Ser Arthur. He donned his helm.

"We swore a vow," explained old Ser Gerold.

Howland and the other five men dismounted, drawing their swords as they moved to Ned's side.

"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

"No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends."

And so they came together in a dance of flashing steel. Lord Willam Dustin and the White Bull dueled long and fiercely, and in the end each perished on the other's blade. Ser Oswell Whent, knowing his death was nigh, charged their line, slashing Theo Wull's spear in two and impaling him in two deadly strokes of his sword. He went on to mortally wound Martyn Cassel before Buckets surged to his feet again and nearly strangled Ser Oswell with his last breath; Ned ran him through with Ice as he futilely fought to free himself from dying mountain chieftain's iron grip. At the same time, Howland, Ethan Glover, and Ser Mark Ryswell all made for Arthur Dayne, but to the Sword of Morning the three of them had been naught but flies. With one sweeping blow he cleaved poor Ethan in two at the waist, and with the second he separated Ser Mark's head from his body. Howland barely dodged a third slash aimed at him, and quickly stabbed at the unprotected hip joint in Ser Arthur's armor, praying for a stroke of blind luck.

The gods did not hear him. Ser Arthur easily stepped out of the range of his bronze trident, then brought Dawn's pommel crashing down on his head. Reeling from the pain, Howland stumbled and fell to the ground, blood streaming down his face as darkness rushed to claim him. When he woke, his skull was throbbing so badly that it was several moments before the sound of ringing steel met his ears; he looked up to see Ned Stark and Arthur Dayne locked in mortal combat. Dayne was slowly forcing Ned to the edge of the path, a precipice hanging over a steep, rocky slope, swinging Dawn into Ice again and again, the clash of steel ringing out across the mountains.

Still slow-moving and delirious from his wound, Howland laid his bronze dagger on a flat red rock, pulled out his cask of poison, and bashed it to pieces on top of the blade, drenching it with the thick black liquid. Standing shakily, he grabbed the dagger with a gloved hand and began to lurch towards the two. Gobs of the poison dripped slowly from the bronze, marking a path as he stumbled over a clump of dry sage bushes and fell face-first onto Ser Gerold Hightower's still body. Blood blossomed from where Lord Dustin's sword had pierced the lord commander's breastplate, drying and hardening quickly under the Dornish sun. Howland surged upward again, more quickly this time, his eyes remaining fixed on the two men ahead of him as he continued to stagger forward.

And then finally he was on them, and he was driving the poison-soaked dagger deep into Ser Arthur's back. The Sword of the Morning made a small, puzzled sound, and froze where he stood. Dawn fell from his hands, hitting the red rocks below them with a clatter, and scarlet blood mixed with the viscous black poison began to seep from the wound onto his pristine white plates. He dropped to his knees, though his eyes never left Ned's, even as Howland walked around him to stand at Lord Stark's side.

"Poisoned?" he asked in a weak voice. His face was beginning to purple. _Never more than half a minute…_

Ned nodded.

"Mercy." Ser Arthur whispered. "The gift of mercy. Please."

Ned raised Ice slowly, reluctantly. Regret was painted clear on his face.

"Lord Eddard, _mercy!" _Ser Arthur said again, louder, a plea. The last word echoed through the valley around them.

"I am sorry, ser," Ned replied, before he swung Ice hard and true, and granted the Sword of the Morning his last request.

They did not speak as they returned to their mounts, the only two of their seven who would ever live to see another day, galloping on to the Tower of Joy in silence. Even then it was only Ned who spoke to Lyanna, beautiful Lyanna, dying in her bed of blood in a room smelling of winter roses, to make a promise. Howland left the two for a time after that, to give them a final moment of peace before they set out for home. He waited a quarter of an hour, then half, then three quarters, sitting on a rock and telling himself that he was cleaning his dagger. It had only taken him a minute to wipe all of the blood and poison off, but for what seemed an eternity, there he sat, still running the piece of cloth up and down the spotless blade, his eyes fixed on the bodies.

Lord Dustin and Ser Gerold both had peaceful expressions on their faces, so that to all the world they seemed to be merely resting, but for the red flowers on their breastplates. Oswell Whent was lying on his side next to Theo Wull, his face obscured by his helm; Martyn Cassel was draped across a rock not far behind them. Ethan Glover and Mark Ryswell, dismembered by Ser Arthur, were both in two places, and already drawing flies. Howland could not bring himself to look at the body of Dayne himself, but eventually mustered the resolve to stand and stride back into the tower. When he entered, Ned was holding Lyanna's cold hands in his, tears streaming from his eyes, his entire body trembling.

Separating the two was the most difficult thing that Howland Reed had ever done; no amount of coaxing would convince Ned to let her go, so he had to pry them apart physically, as Ned sobbed and cried out his sister's name over and over. After Howland had made a final promise to Ned, they embraced, then mounted their respective horses and parted ways, Ned riding south to Starfall, and Howland returning north. That was the last time he had ever seen Lord Eddard Stark, and scarcely a day passed that he did not think back and wish that he had said something, _anything, _in that final moment.

Howland was drawn suddenly from his thoughts when his wife rapped at the door and opened it slightly, peering inside.

"You haven't drowned in there, have you, Howland?"

"Jyana!" He sat up quickly in the now lukewarm water, a smile spreading across his face. Lady Jyana Reed was of a height with her lord husband, a trait he had come to love since their marriage after Robert's Rebellion. Thick ebony hair ran down to her shoulders in lazy ringlets, complimented by intense chestnut eyes; she had a slight build and full breasts. He stood and swiftly grabbed a cloth towel, drying himself and wrapping it around his waist before hurrying to the door to embrace her. She responded with a kiss, long and deep. "I should have come to you first." He finally gasped, pulling away. "Forgive me, my lady."

"You should have," she replied with a grin, ushering him back into the room, "but you have other matters to attend to now, so I shall have to exact my revenge later. Dress yourself, quickly, now. You know your uncle isn't a patient man."

"That I do." He murmured, donning a plain green linen doublet and a matching cloak fastened about his shoulders with a pale white lizard lion tooth; Howland was not a man of extravagant tastes, and even if he were, silks and samnites were hard to come by in the swamps of the Neck. He took Jyana in his arm and strode quickly down the stairs of his tower, into the castle's central yard. Small by typical Westerosi standards, Greywater Watch was merely a cluster of square wooden towers, barracks, and keeps, surrounded by a high wall covered in a layer of bronze meant to deter flaming arrows, should an enemy ever find them. The entire structure supported by a vast wooden base riddled with air pockets to keep the castle afloat, though carefully placed rumors of a floating island helped sow confusion and fear among foes. They had no maester, no knights or masters-at-arms; every child was taught how to hunt and fight and survive by their own parents, and made their own equipment when they came of age; that was all most required.

The Bronze Ox and several of his scouts were waiting for them- as impatient as always, Laren had his thick arms crossed, but broke into a smile when he saw the two.

"Well you took your bloody time." He grunted good-naturedly, gesturing for them to follow him. "What, did you fall into the tub?"

"I had to pull him out." Jyana replied, throwing Howland a mirthful glance as the castle's main gates swung open for them, and the group stepped out onto Greywater Watch's docks. Countless fishing boats, rafts, and barges were moored at the three long, wide wooden piers, their captains and crews milling about in the dappled morning sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. Fisherman's Pier was lined with stalls selling everything from duck and quail breasts to frog legs and shelled turtles; the morning's catches were already being loaded off of countless boats, with three stout men struggling to haul ashore the carcass of a massive grey whiskerfish that must have been twice the size of any one of them. The stalls of Merchant's Pier, on the other hand, vended arms and armor, alchemical ingredients harvested in the swamps, and all manner of trinkets, jewels, and other valuables, often looted from fallen enemies. Howland spotted several Nightstalk mushrooms in a slatted wooden box, and a full set of iron armor engraved with krakens, still stained brown with the blood of its previous owner. Hunter's Pier was much less lively than the other two, with no stalls and few boats docked. Only scouts and hunters walked its length, either returning from a night of patrolling or setting out for a day of it. The poleboat Laren had met them in was moored at the end of the pier, the gangplank already lowered, and the crew aboard.

"Be safe," Jyana murmured, embracing him fiercely.

"Always." Howland replied, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her forehead before he turned to board.

"Don't worry, my lord," Laren called from the pier once the moorings were cast off, and the poleboat was beginning to pull away from the docks, "I'll hold the castle while you fumble over all your formalities with the northerners."

"See that you do, uncle." Howland called back, grinning despite himself. Leaning against the rail, he watched the two receding figures until they faded into the morning mists with the rest of Greywater Watch, and then retreated into the aftcastle. The map of the Neck that Laren had used was still there, but Howland was more interested in the barrels of provisions at the back; the first one he opened yielded mottled red crabapples, the second rashers of salt pork. _Not a great lord's fare,_ he mused as he took a swig from the skin of water at his belt between bites of apple and pork, _but after nearly a full day spent with no food to speak of, I would be hard-pressed to complain. _Once his modest feast was over, Howland's eyelids suddenly grew leaden, and before he could stand to move to the bed in the corner, he had already fallen into a dreamless sleep.

"My lord?"

A light sleeper out of habit, Lord Reed stood so quickly at the sound that he flipped the chair he had been reclining in, and nearly upended the table, to the further dismay of the crewman who had reluctantly woken him, a boy who looked to be no older than Meera.

"My apologies." Howland chuckled. "I didn't mean to startle you. I assume that we've arrived?"

"Y-yes, my lord."

"Good. Fetch me the two best hunters on the ship to serve as my guards, and prepare a rowboat."

* * *

"Master Glover, Lady Mormont," Howland began, setting the letter containing King Robb's terms back onto the table and trying his best to exude lordliness, "I find your offer most agreeable. Were I able, I would dispatch my best men to begin leading you around Moat Cailin this very afternoon- but there is one hindrance."

"And what would that be?" Maege Mormont asked, a thin grey eyebrow raised. Bear Island's Lady was as old enough to be Howland's mother, and her dark black hair had long since turned ashen, but she still possessed a warrior's fierceness about her; he could see why her men called her the She-Bear.

"Delron Volmark." Howland replied, his mouth a grim line. "Victarion Greyjoy and the Iron Fleet returned to Pyke when word of Balon's death reached them, but they left _him_ behind to continue hunting down my castle and harassing my people. This captain is different, though; he's cunning, and brutal at that. He captured and executed my cousin and all of his men, and he's gotten close to finding Greywater Watch itself- too close. Tactically, he and his scouting parties are blocking all access to the northwestern region of the swamps, where I would need to take you to maneuver around the Ironborn at the Moat. Until he's gone, we can't do anything."

Galbart Glover nodded, stroking his beard contemplatively. For a man the same age as Howland, he looked ten years younger, and far more regal. His long, well kempt burgundy hair and matching beard had barely begun to grey, and the mailed fist of House Glover gleamed bright silver on spotless steel plates the same color as his locks.

"I see… and I suppose you'll be needing our aid in removing this Volmark man?"

"I would not make such a request without compensation in mind." Howland added quickly. "I would be extraordinarily grateful to be rid of this menace to my people. Grateful enough to lead some of my best hunters down the Green Fork into the Riverlands, in addition to guiding you in the assault on Moat Cailin."

Master Glover and Lady Mormont exchanged a swift glance, and stood.

* * *

The Abyss had always made Howland Reed uneasy. A vast expanse nearly a league square, it was completely devoid of any trees or islets, with patches of duckweed and massive green frog pads the only visible signs of life on the surface. The most popular story regarding its origin held that thousands of years ago, in the Age of Heroes, a greedy Marsh King had felled the local trees and used them to build himself a grand, floating palace thrice the size of Greywater Watch. He amassed all of his kingdom's wealth and jewels in the palace, growing fat and rich inside his walls as the people grew poor and starved beneath them. Finally, the gods struck him down and smote his palace and all of its wealth to the bottom of the swamp, cursing the Abyss for eternity. Occasionally, some half-mad adventurer would dive into the murky waters seeking long lost glory and riches, but none ever returned. As he peered over the rail of the _Sly Vixen, _Howland could swear that for half a moment he glimpsed the silhouette of a sunken tower beneath the tranquil black surface, but it was gone just as quickly.

Far ahead of them, at the very heart of the expanse, a dim orange light flickered through the fog that swallowed the Abyss on wet nights, making it seem all the more damned.

"There." Howland murmured, gesturing towards the distant glow. "That's where he's dropped anchor. He rarely ever sets out himself, just holes up on his ship and lets his men do all of the work."

"And how many men does he have?" Galbart Glover asked from beside him, narrowing his eyes as he stared in the light's direction.

"Originally, I'd say four or five hundred. By our count we've whittled that number down by around one hundred and fifty, and a vast majority of those who remain will be on patrol looking for Greywater Watch when we attack. We'll be facing no more than one hundred men, I promise you."

"Men without honor are anything but predictable, Lord Reed." Galbart snapped, a scowl marring his handsome features. He had developed a healthy distrust for the Ironborn since Asha Greyjoy had stormed his castle in the night, taking his wife and children as hostages. Glover turned to his squire, who had been waiting behind them. "Tom, my Myrish lens."

Tomas Ryswell, a tall, freckled boy of fifteen with a shock of flaxen hair, bowed and rushed off to fetch the instrument in question, leaving his master to brood in sullen silence.

"Forgive me for that… outburst." Galbart said at length, sighing. "That was… unbecoming of me. I simply…"

"I understand. There is nothing to forgive, Master Glover. I have my own reasons for hating Ironborn. But regarding the battle… how many men did you bring as an escort? I regret asking you to use them, but the circumstances are …unique."

"Both ships have a crew of thirty, half of which are soldiers. We have three knights as well:, Barbrey Snow, Lord Flint's bastard son, Cole Cerwyn, and Alyn Vance. Fierce warriors, all. They will not fail you. Ser Barbrey is garrisoned here on the _Vixen, _if you wish to speak with him before we join battle."

At that, Galbart's squire returned with a Myrish lens in hand, red-faced and out of breath. It had been years since Howland had seen one; after Ned lifted the siege on Storm's End, as he dealt with the lengthy process of sorting out the surrendered royalist army, the castle's maseter, a kindly old man named Cressen, had shown him a larger version, mounted on a tripod.

"Thank you, Tom. You may leave us."

Galbart lifted the metal and glass tube to his eye, gazing towards the distant light as he spoke.

"And how many men have you marshaled, Lord Reed?"

"I have positioned two hundred of my finest hunters on all sides of the Abyss. When we begin the attack, they will strike from every direction. Thirty of them will emerge around the _Vixen_, and twenty near the _Butcher,_ but until I signal them, they will remain concealed in the treeline."

"And what is this signal?" Glover asked, lowering the lens.

Howland patted a huge warhorn fastened at his hip, carved from the horn of an aurochs and banded with rune-covered bronze.

"This will wake half of the swamp, but I suppose subtlety is already out of the question."

"Indeed." Galbart chuckled, a grin tugging at his lips as he turned to face the rest of the ship. The _Sly Vixen _was the smaller of the two cogs the northmen had sailed up the Saltspear in, but as her name suggested, she was much faster and easier to handle in the tight waters of the Neck. While Lady Maege aboard the larger and heavier _Brazen Butcher _distracted the Ironborn, _Vixen _was to take them from the rear, and signal the crannogmen Howland had assembled to join in the assault_. _Boxed in on all sides by a larger force, even the most battle-hardened captain couldn't last long. "If you'll excuse me, though, I must needs speak with my men before we join battle."

As Galbart made for the hold, where the cog's fifteen Mallister and Glover men-at-arms were preparing for battle, Howland returned to the aftcastle, where the bastard knight Master Glover mentioned would be bunked. Ser Barbrey, as it happened, found him first, nearly running into him as he turned a corner. The man was taller than Howland by nearly a head, with short, thick black hair mussed from his helm, and a clean-shaven face. He was garbed in simple, unadorned plate and mail, his helm tucked under one arm and a bastard sword slung across his back, over a short, ragged cloak that might have once been grey.

"Beg pardon, Lord Reed." He said warily, gazing down on him with the pools of liquid steel characteristic of House Flint. When he wasn't accosted, he turned and moved to leave, until Howland called after him.

"You are Ser Barbrey? Lord Flint's …" he nearly said _bastard, _but thought better of it. "…natural-born?"

The knight scoffed, shaking his head and replying in tones dripping with sarcasm.

"Of course not, my lord- I'm of the famous House Snow. Surely you've heard of my brothers Jon and Ramsay."

Howland cringed, but quickly shook it off, paying the sardonicism no heed.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, Ser. It was not my intent. I was simply curious as to how…"

"How a bastard became a Ser?" Barbrey finished, smirking. "Well, my lord, I got my knighthood at the same battle everyone else did- Pyke." He leaned against a wooden beam and drank deeply from a skin of wine before continuing. "I earned mine on the beachhead, though, not in that siege everyone loves to fawn over. It was right ugly, that fight. Archers took out a third, maybe half of the men we landed; the sand was stained red, there were so many bodies. And the screaming… That was probably the worst part. Arrows don't always kill clean; I had to give two men the gift of mercy. Once we were about halfway up the beach, a Greyjoy longship swung in real close behind us and started loosing shafts, so we were under fire front _and _back. I dropped down and used some knight's body for cover until one of Lord Redwyne's war galleys came 'round and put down the longship. A Brax man, I think he was; I remember seeing a unicorn on his armor, only it was covered in blood…"

"It sounds brutal," Howland said as Ser Barbrey paused to take another swig of wine, shaking his head. In Robert's Rebellion, he had seen his fair share of bloody battles, but little to match what Snow was describing. He felt a sudden pang of guilt for not coming to Lord Stark's aid when he called his banners during the Rebellion, but shrugged it off. Crannogmen were built for neither naval combat on the open ocean nor charging through breaches in a siege. His best hunters would have been practically useless.

"Only until we got up the beachhead."Barbrey said with a shrug. "After that, we met up with King Robert's men and didn't have any trouble from there to Lordsport. That final push was something else, though… By then I'd moved past the Brax knight up to a space behind a boulder, where the rest of the men who'd made it were forming up. Halys Hornwood, Jason Mallister, and Quenten Banefort, our three commanders, were getting everyone ready for a charge on the archers… and seven hells, was it a charge. Lord Hornwood blew on his warhorn and we all came running out from behind that rock around both edges, screaming like the Stranger was at our heels. Lord Banefort must have taken five arrows in his shield by the time we got to them, and one or two in his armor, but I doubt he noticed. I doubt I would have noticed, we were all so focused on getting to the other side. When we did, it the fight was hardly even fair. Lord Mallister cut their commander, Lord Blacktyde, in two like he was made of wet paper, and I myself killed a Botley and two Goodbrothers with Blackfang here, more than enough for a knighthood."

He unsheathed the bastard sword and gazed at it wistfully, a smile spreading across his face. A smith had worked black hues into the steel, so the lengthy blade shone like polished dragonglass when Barbrey held it in the moonlight. The silver crucifix hilt was wrapped in well-worn leather around the grip, and the sigil of the Flints of Flint's Finger, a stone hand, was wrought in greyish steel in the pommel.

"A fine sword," Howland agreed, "and expensive, as well, by the look of it."

"A gift from my lord father," Ser Barbrey admitted grudgingly as he sheathed it, "on my coming of age. It served me well on the beachhead, and when we burned Lordsport. It would have served me well at the siege of the castle, too, if it wasn't for Varon Harlaw. The Harlaw sigil is a scythe, and Varon fought with one as tall as a grown man, and wicked sharp. I was in the Lordsport harbor, helping torch any ships still anchored when he came running down the pier at me, bellowing like a mammoth and waving that scythe. I had no shield, so I tried to parry him; didn't turn out to be one of my better ideas."

Snow unfastened his right pauldron and lifted it, pulling back the mail and tunic beneath and revealing part of a massive, curved scar. "The whoreson nearly took my sword arm off with one blow. He would have taken my head next, if some Baratheon crossbowman hadn't heard him shouting, and shot him in the gut. The quarrel knocked him off his feet and into the harbor, and his armor did the rest. I was alive, but I was bleeding more than I knew I had blood, and if you'd given it a good hard yank, you probably could've pulled my right arm off. They put me on a longboat and sent me back to the fleet out in the bay; Lord Hightower had brought his some of the Citadel's maesters with him to treat the wounded, so I spent the rest of the battle on an Oldtown dromond, drinking milk of the poppy while Robert and his men stormed the breach."

He sighed, fastening back the mail and plate and donning his helm.

"By the old gods and the new, if I end up in the seven hells, I'm going to find Varon Harlaw and shove his scythe up his bloody-"

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. _

Talk of posthumous revenge forgotten, both men turned and drew their weapons out of instinct. When they saw one of the _Vixen's _crew pounding on the huge drum under the mast, they exchanged a swift glance and bolted to the front of the ship.

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. _

Past the bow, the dim, distant light Howland had seen earlier was now a burning forest of torches and lanterns, cutting through the fog and illuminating the long, sleek shape of Delron Volmark's massive war galley, _Leviathan. _Named for the sigil of House Volmark, which was sewn onto both dark grey sails, the ship more than lived up to its namesake; it was nearly three times the size of the _Vixen, _rivaling even the dromonds of the Royal Fleet. Its sides bristled with ballistae and scorpions, and between its fore and aft masts, a catapult had been mounted on a swivel. _This ship alone could destroy Greywater Watch, _Howland realized, his eyes wide. Beside him, Barbrey Snow swore viciously. The bronze trident in his hands suddenly felt much smaller.

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. _

As they drew closer, they could see Ironborn rushing around on the _Leviathan's _decks, hear the clash of steel and the thrum of ballistae. The catapult flung a barrel of burning pitch through the night, and for a moment Howland could make out the outline of the _Brazen Butcher _on the war galley's opposite side. Then, in the flickering light of the distant torches, he saw them, and red rage gripped his heart. Bermarr Reed had only been two and twenty, but already the finest hunter Howland had ever seen. Given command of Greywater Watch's hunters when the Ironborn invaded, he had assembled a team of ten, the Ghosts of the Neck, to serve with him: Morvayn Blackmyre, Donnyl Fenn, Karlas Quagg, all hand-picked killers coming from nearly every clan of the crannogmen. While the entirety of the Iron Fleet had been blindly fumbling its way through the swamps, looking for Moat Cailin, The Ghosts of the Neck had preyed on the stragglers, killing over one hundred men in a span of two days, and never once being seen. All the while, he had coordinated the other scouts and hunters with the skill of a master tactician, directing them to block paths through the trees and funnel the Ironborn into tight corridors and dead ends, to lay traps and coordinate ambushes. The proud Iron Fleet had left a trail of over two hundred dead when it finally reached the Moat, and Bermarr was a hero.

He bled them in the same manner when they heard of King Balon's death and returned to the Iron Islands, and thought he would do so again with Delron Volmark's men when he was left behind. For a time he did just that. When Volmark dispatched patrols, the Ghosts would hunt them down; almost one hundred of Delron's men had died in such a fashion. But where the other captains Bermarr had dealt with were simple-minded brutes, Volmark was cunning. Whereas most nights he sent out multiple longboats to patrol several regions of the swamp, on a clear, moonless night he sent one, crewed only with a rower and a single soldier, who stood at the prow and held a huge whale oil lantern visible for nearly a league around the boat. Following their normal procedure, the Ghosts concealed their raft beneath a tree and waited until the boat passed by, whereupon they easily shot and killed both Ironborn without a sound. When the man at the prow fell into the waters of the swamp, though, so did his lantern. One bright light guttered out, and twenty more flickered to life in a rough circle surrounding the longboat's last position. Bermarr Reed was a caged rat. The Ghosts tried to fight their way out of the trap, but the Ironborn cornered them on a mudbank and slaughtered all of them but Bermarr and his lieutenant, Morvayn Blackmyre, who were bound and gagged and brought back to the _Leviathan. _

Once he had dipped the nine butchered Ghosts in tar and strung them from his war galley's yardarms, Delron took Bermarr's cask of poison from his belt and forced his mouth open, pouring its entire contents down his throat as vengeance for the Ironborn he had killed while Morvayn watched, helpless. Once Bermarr was dead, Volmark had dipped his own dagger into Blackmyre's poison cask, and nicked him on the arm. The captain then bound him to a rowboat by his legs and commanded him to return to Greywater Watch and tell Lord Reed everything that had happened. With nowhere else to turn, Morvayn had done just that, divulging every detail and trying to provide as much information on the _Leviathan _itself as he could while he continued to grow weaker by the minute, falling victim to his own poison, a slow-acting but lethal mix of serpent and spider venom. With his last breath, Morvayn Blackmyre had begged Howland to kill Delron Volmark, and as Lord Reed gazed upon the ten rotting bodies, his young cousin's principal among them, he knew beyond a doubt that he would, slowly and painfully.

_BOOM doom BOOM doom BOOM doom. _

The _Leviathan's _crew had finally noticed the second cog, and several arrows and scorpion bolts began to fly towards them, but by then it was too late. The_ Sly Vixen _was practically on top of the Ironborn, the bronze ram Laren had fitted her with cutting through the water like a knife.

"_BRACE!" _Galbart boomed from the aftcastle when they were perhaps ten seconds from impact, and the drum grew silent. Howland grabbed onto a piece of rigging with his left hand; with his right, he drew the bronze-banded warhorn from his belt, sucked in a deep breath, and blew.

_AAAAHHHhhooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo._

The sound rolled through the Abyss like thunder, echoing through the fog around them. Ahead the _Leviathan's _flank loomed ever closer, but Howland lifted the horn to his lips once more all the same, calling out to his hunters.

_AAAAHHHhhooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo._

Not a moment after he had lowered the warhorn, the _Vixen _slammed into the larger war galley with a colossal crash. The crack of splitting wood filled the air, and Howland was flung forward, the rope slipping through his fingers. He would have been thrown into the water if not for Ser Barbrey, who grabbed him by the hood of his mottled green cloak with a gauntleted fist, holding him until the cog ceased heaving. While the _Leviathan _was far too massive to have been sunken or cut in two by the impact, it did list heavily; as he clambered to his feet, Howland could see Ironborn soldiers doing the same, and noted that two scorpions and a ballista had been knocked over, or away from their firing positions.

And then the grappling hooks were sailing across the gap, and gangplanks were being thrown down. Galbart Glover was the first to cross, bellowing _DEEPWOOD MOTTE! _as he cut down the first two Ironborn in his path. Howland and Barbrey were close at his heels, trident and bastard sword ready, and then all of the fifteen men-at-arms poured over the planks, silver hands and silver eagles flashing on their armor in the torchlight. Two men were taken by scorpions as they crossed, the force of the impacts knocking them back and into the murky depths below, but most made it, shouting warcries of their own as they fell on the paltry number of Ironborn defenders who had broken off from the battle with the _Butcher. _Howland hamstrung a man as he reloaded a scorpion, bringing his trident to bear and making a red ruin of his throat once he crumpled to the deck. Behind him, Barbrey Snow was dueling a huge Ironman who boomed _ORKMONT! ORKMONT! _with every blow; the cry turned into a scream when Lord Reed slipped up behind him and drove his trident into the man's thigh.

As they fought, more and more of the crew saw through the ruse, switching sides to deal with the boarders, until finally they were trapped against the rail, doing their best to throw back surges of Ironborn. Galbart was dueling three men at once, struggling to protect a wounded Glover retainer, as Barbrey fought back to back with a Mallister man-at-arms, their swords and armor dripping red. Howland had climbed back onto a gangplank, where he stood above the battle, raining down a stream of poisoned arrows on the _Leviathan's _crew, but it wasn't enough. He watched in terror as an Ironman sent Master Glover sprawling to the deck with a spear-thrust to the back, raising the weapon above his head for the killing blow. Then Laren Reed was burying his bronze battleaxe in the man's head, and Howland's hunters were swarming across the vast war galley's deck like hornets, their bows twanging and their bidents and tridents gleaming as they took the Ironborn from every direction. They were in the rigging and on the masts, they were racing across the deck in twos and threes, cutting down the ship's crew wherever they went. Howland leapt from the gangplank with trident in hand, rejoining the fray with vigor as the Bronze Ox carved a bloody path towards him.

Trapped between the men from the _Vixen _and the crannogmen, the Ironborn who didn't bolt while they had the chance were felled swiftly, and the two sides were united with a ragged cheer. Laren threw down his axe and embraced his nephew ferociously, laughing his deep laugh; if Howland hadn't been wearing bronze mail and boiled leather under his cloak, his back would likely have snapped like a twig.

"We cannot celebrate yet!" Galbart cried from behind them, his sword pointed towards the other side of the _Leviathan, _where the rest of the war galley's crew was fending off both the _Butcher _and the hunters. "Forward, men! _CHARGE!" _

This time Howland joined in the shouting as well, crying _FOR GREYWATER WATCH! FOR NED! FOR NED! _as he made for a group of Ironborn defending the catapult, Laren at his side. Formed in a series of lines, the men put up fierce resistance, but with archers whittling away at them from above, and a throng of victory-drunk soldiers pressing forward, they soon broke. Ser Barbrey clambered onto the swiveling platform with Blackfang in one hand and a torch in the other, cutting down the four men operating the catapult in short order and setting the siege engine ablaze, to the adulation of the men beneath him. While they cheered and the flames roared, Howland heard a large _thud _from behind him, and pivoted to find that the hunters on the masts were cutting loose the tarred bodies of the Ghosts of the Neck from where they had been hanging on the yardarms.

"We'll put them on the _Vixen _with the wounded when this is all over!" He called to Laren, who was moving towards one of the corpses. "For now, we have to finish this!"

The other men apparently shared the same sentiment; they were surging around the burning catapult towards the far rail and the remainder of the _Leviathan's_ crew with swords in hand, flanked by hunters. Letting the Bronze Ox catch up to them on his own, Howland sheathed his trident and began to scale a patch of rigging, opting to join his archers on the main mast. It was only when he had climbed onto the starboard yardarm, and was able to see the battle below, that he truly realized how easy the _Vixen's _mission had been. As a distraction, the _Brazen Butcher _had taken the brunt of the massive war galley's offensive efforts, as even a cursory glance would reveal. Her sails were both afire from the barrels of pitch flung by the catapult, and her hull was riddled with ballista missiles and scorpion bolts, some of which were spreading fires of their own. A fleet of longboats was gathered beneath her, their Ironborn occupants using grappling hooks to scale the cog's sides. Even a small river galley, one of two that Volmark kept moored to the _Leviathan_ to serve as heavy scouts, was circling her, sending flaming arrows and scorpion bolts towards her aftcastle, where Maege Mormont and the _Butcher's_ fifteen men were holding out against the Ironborn boarders. Groups of hunters were attempting to reach the besieged ship, but the _Leviathan _was gutting their efforts completely. Two scorpions tore apart a raft and its occupants in mere moments, and a huge poleboat filled with crannogmen was foundering, pierced by countless ballista missiles.

On the deck, Galbart had noticed the other cog's predicament as well, and was leading the men to attack the crews of the siege weapons, shouting something that Howland couldn't hear above the noise of battle. Settling into position on the yardarm between a Greengood and a Cray, he unslung his bow and nocked an arrow, drawing and loosing it in a single fluid motion. It struck home in the shoulder of an Ironman who had been aiming a ballista at a raft full of hunters, and he fell to the floor, convulsing; Howland had dipped his entire quiver of arrows in the cask at his belt long before battle was joined. Next, he felled an axeman pushing Barbrey towards the rail, then a scorpion operator, and a charging spearman after that. Then… Howland froze. _Volmark. _The captain was unmistakable, just as Morvayn had described him, clad from head to toe in grey steel armor. The helm was fashioned in the shape of a roaring leviathan's head, and a row of steel spikes and scales ran down the neck and back, emulating the rest of the creature's body. In his gauntleted hands he held a massive, driftwood-hafted halberd, its blade and stabbing point forged from the same dark grey steel as the armor.

A pair of hunters on the deck saw him emerging from his cabin as well, and moved to flank him, their spears poised to strike. Without a word, he lowered the halberd and surged forwards, impaling one of the hunters below his leather breastplate before he could move to dodge, and twisting the haft. The second hunter screamed in rage as the first screamed in pain, charging Volmark from behind and jabbing at the small of his back. Delron sidestepped the blow effortlessly, then backpedaled with surprising speed, slamming him full in the face and chest with the spiked section of his armor. The unfortunate crannogman howled in pain, blood gushing down his leather plates, but Volmark continued to move backwards until he hit a nearby wall; the hunter was crushed and torn apart by Delron's weight pushing the spikes into him, his limbs flailing for a moment and then growing still. Once the man was dead, Volmark retrieved his halberd from the first hunter's torso, snapping his neck with a grey steel boot to hasten his death, and plunged headlong into the melee.

Pure rage coursing through his veins, Howland strung an arrow and drew, aiming for a joint in the captain's armor and motioning for the Greengood and Cray beside him to do the same. Just as the three men were about to loose, the mast itself heaved and tilted backwards, throwing the Greengood from his perch and nearly doing the same to the other two.

"Fire!" a deep voice Howland knew to be Laren's shouted from below. "Get down, _fire!" _

He glanced down in the voice's direction, his eyes growing wide when he saw the blaze his uncle was referring to. The fire Ser Barbrey had started to destroy the catapult had spread across nearly a quarter of the deck and halfway up the main mast, which was beginning to collapse with him still on it. Swearing, he grabbed the Cray archer by his cloak and pulled the man along with him towards the nearest patch of rigging, praying that they would be able to get down in time. The gods seemed to have a particular loathing for Howland Reed, though; the mast came crashing down onto the aftcastle when the two crannogmen were halfway towards the rigging, throwing them to the deck below like rag his entire body ached, he knew when he moved to stand that he had broken several ribs, and his nose as well, judging from the amount of blood dripping from it. The Cray hunter had not been so lucky; his leg was bent in a fashion it certainly wasn't meant to bend in, and he was swearing fiercely.

"Stay here." He said hurriedly, glancing behind him. "Don't try to move unless you have to."

As soon as the man grunted consent, Howland pivoted and raced to the lower deck, his trident ready. The remaining _Vixen _men and the hunters had pushed the Ironborn against the _Leviathan's _starboard rail, and were gradually whittling down their numbers. Many of them had been forced to abandon their ballistae or scorpions, and with much of the pressure on her relieved, the _Butcher _had broken free from the circle of longboats, and was sailing hard for the larger war galley's flank, her own bronze ram glowing with reflected moonlight. This time, Howland was ready, having braced himself on a rail much more firmly than he had the first time as the _Butcher_ grew closer and closer; over the sounds of battle he could hear Maege Mormont screaming _BRACE! _just as Galbart had. Despite his preparations, he was still nearly thrown backwards when the cog impacted with a massive_ crack _and the _Leviathan _began to list, though he fared better than most of the combatants, who were tossed back and forth across the deck in a jumble of flashing steel and shouted curses.

Taking advantage of the situation, Howland darted around the edges of the group of men, his trident flashing in and out and laying low three Ironborn before they could rise. He was moving to gut a fourth when a harsh, deep voice boomed out across the deck.

"_REED!" _

Howland turned to see Delron Volmark's massive halberd arcing downwards towards him; he threw himself away from the blade just as it crashed into the wooden deck in a flurry of splinters. The captain wrenched it out again just as quickly, and swung it in another savage arc that would have opened him from balls to brains had he not ducked under it, stabbing at Delron's hip joint just as he had stabbed at Ser Arthur's all those years ago. Instead of stepping back, though, Volmark stepped forward, bringing an armored knee into Howland's face and breaking his nose for the second time in a span of five minutes. As he stumbled back, growling curses, the captain continued to advance, doubling him over with a kick to the gut, and throwing him onto his back with a crushing blow across the chest with the halberd's haft. His trident lost, he reached desperately for the bronze dagger at his hip, but a grey steel boot smashed his wrist into the deck with an audible crack, and his curses turned to a wordless cry of pain.

"This is for every Ironborn you killed, bog devil." Volmark growled from behind the leviathan-head helm, resting the halberd's spear point under his chin and beginning to slowly push it forward. "For every one of my men you slaughtered from the shadows, hiding like the craven you are." The tip broke the skin, and blood began to run down Howland's throat. Delron started to say something else, but he was interrupted when Laren Reed plowed into his side with the force of a charging aurochs, throwing the larger man to the ground, armor and all. The Bronze Ox raised his axe and brought it down hard, aiming for the Ironman's head; Volmark tried to roll out of the way, but his bloodied spikes caught in the wood, and he ended up merely twisting onto his side. The axe glanced off of his plates, not penetrating, but Laren had put enough force into the swing to break several ribs, as it surely did. Spitting curses, Delron pulled himself free and staggered upwards, bringing his weapon to bear; he caught Laren's next blow in the driftwood haft, and met the one after that with the blade.

From there they were dueling in a storm of bronze and steel, halberd and axe clashing again and again, each seeking the opening that would spell the other's doom. Both men fought with raw, brutal strength, holding nothing back, but of the two, Volmark was taller, stronger, and better armored; blow for blow, he was winning, driving Laren back towards the fire with savage thrusts and slashes that swiftly reduced his bronze plates and boiled leather to a torn ruin. Every time the crannogman tried to counterattack, he was rebuffed, but even so he kept fighting. _Run, _Howland wanted to scream. _You can't win like this; you have to tire him out. Trying to best him in a duel won't work, uncle, you blind bloody fool. _But the words refused to come to his mouth, and Laren Reed kept trying to beat Delron Volmark the only way he knew how. Eventually, his efforts proved futile, just as Howland had known they would; Delron forced him to his knees at the edge of the blaze with a series of devastating blows, cutting Laren's battleaxe in two at the haft when he raised it to defend himself. The Ironman was struggling to hold Reed down long enough to finish him when a gangplank crashed onto the _Leviathan's _rail, and the She-Bear of Bear Island leapt onto the deck, battle-hardened Mormont retainers at her heels. Together with Galbart Glover's men and the hunters, they surged through the circle of surviving crew members like a wave, leaving a wake of blood and death behind them. Lady Maege was braining Ironborn left and right with her mace, while the two armored men at her sides, surely the knights Cole Cerwyn and Alyn Vance, were proving equally adept with axe and sword. When the screams of his men reached his ears, Volmark kicked Laren hard in the forehead, sending him sprawling and unconscious to the floor, before turning and charging back into the main fray.

His wrist screamed in protest, but Howland pushed himself to his feet all the same, gritting his teeth and struggling to ignore the blood streaming down his face and chest. Laren had fallen at the edge of the fire that was gradually consuming the ship, and the flames were licking at his long hair and beard by the time Howland grabbed his right ankle and began to pull. The Bronze Ox proved as stubborn as his namesake, though, refusing to budge despite his nephew's exertions. Howland was considering attempting to push him from the other side when the war galley heaved beneath him, throwing him to the deck once again, and shifting Laren out of the flames' grasp. For a heartbeat, he thought that another ship had rammed them, but then he saw that the waterline was slowly rising, and he knew.

"OFF!" He bellowed, waving to the northmen. "GET OFF! THE SHIP IS SINKING!" His hunters in their light leather and mottled green linen could swim as well as any man, but the Glover, Mallister, and Mormont men-at-arms in their heavy steel plate and mail would sink like stones, joining the greedy Marsh King in his drowned palace.

Galbart and Maege saw the danger as well, and quickly began herding their retainers onto the _Butcher;_ the fire was consuming the port rail, where the _Vixen _had rammed and boarded the larger ship had already sunken so low in the water that the men had to run uphill over the gangplank to reach the cog, but thankfully, none fell in the process. Finally, of their attacking force, only the three knights, along with Howland, Laren, and a group of hunters remained on the foundering ship, opposite Volmark and the_ Leviathan's_ last surviving crew, five haggard and blood-soaked Ironmen who stood defiant at their captain's side.

"Tell the boy I'm proud of him." Delron said suddenly. Howland froze where he stood.

"Beg pardon?" said Ser Alyn Vance, a dashing young man with long chestnut locks who fancied himself Aemon the Dragonknight reborn. A dragon was inlaid in onyx on his pearl white armor, and dragon heads adorned his pauldrons and vambraces as well. His helm had onyx dragon wings, but he had removed it during the momentary respite to wipe sweat from his brow.

"Maron," Volmark continued, oblivious to his ship collapsing around him, "my lord nephew. He'll make a right good reaver, that one. Always thought so. I meant to give him the _Leviathan _when he came of age, but I don't suppose I can do that now." The captain chuckled, a harsh, rasping sound.

"If you mean to win us over with pity, then your efforts are in vain,"Ser Cole Cerwyn said in icy tones, turning his double-edged axe in hand. The Cerwyns had developed a deep loathing for Ironborn since Theon Turncloak slew Lord Cley at Winterfell, and that wasn't like to change now.

"I don't mean to win you," Delron replied, lowering his halberd. "I mean to kill you."

At that he charged, thrusting the spearpoint toward Ser Cole's chest; his men dashed forward beside him, joining battle with Barbrey Snow and the hunters. Cole raised his shield, but the tip still plunged straight through the wood before catching barely an inch from his breastplate. Volmark tried to wrench it out to no avail, so instead he ran forwards, using his sheer size to shove Cerwyn to the ground just as he had done with Howland. The knight slashed desperately at his attacker's knee and hip joints, and even managed to draw blood before Delron pried his halberd free, lifted it, and plunged the point into Ser Cole Cerwyn's neck, caving in his steel gorget like it was parchment.

"NO!" Ser Alyn cried in distress, racing forward, his helm donned and his sword ready. Delron turned to greet the second knight, swinging his halberd with him, but Vance met the blade steel for steel, driving his sword forward ferociously. Howland moved towards Volmark as well, albeit slowly and more cautiously, clutching his bronze dagger in his left hand as his right hung limp at his side, throbbing with pain. He couldn't hold his trident, let alone fight Volmark head-on; he had to find an opening, attack him from behind. While he had lost his cask of poison when he fell from the mast, a dagger in the back could be just as lethal without it. Nearby, Ser Barbrey and the remaining hunters had separated the five Ironmen, and were dealing with them one-by-one while their lord and the other two knights fought their captain. _One, soon. _Howland thought grimly, glancing to Ser Cole. Blood was flowing freely from beneath his crumpled gorget, and while he was still breathing, it was shallow and rapid. He had half a mind to give him the gift of mercy, but Delron demanded his attention. Ahead of him, Alyn Vance was holding his own quite well against the captain, meeting him blow for blow and slashing again and again at the joints where Cerwyn had already wounded him, until finally Volmark collapsed to one knee with a grunt. Howland seized his chance and darted forward, his dagger plunging deep into the man's back through the grey steel plate.

Then suddenly the armor was white, and black poison was dripping from the wound, and the Sword of the Morning was begging Ned to kill him. Howland was about to say something when Ser Arthur's armor grew spikes, and he surged backwards, curses flying from his lips. He woke from the memory and dived out of the way too late; three spikes dragged across his face, leaving rivers of white-hot pain behind them. Howland stumbled and nearly fell onto the blood-soaked deck, cradling his head in both hands and gritting his teeth so hard that he was shocked that they didn't shatter. When he forced himself to open his eyes through the blood and sweat that soaked his face, Volmark was struggling to push back both Ser Alyn and Ser Barbrey as blood streamed down his leg and back, his pants audible through his helm. Nearby, the hunters had finished the five Ironborn, and were lifting Laren by his arms and legs, carrying him to the prow of the ship; they could never hope to drag the Bronze Ox unconscious up the narrow, sloped gangplank, and so their best hope was bring him to whatever craft they had arrived on. Howland had dropped his dagger when Delron's armor tore his face apart, and for a moment he began to search for it, until his eyes fell upon a much larger prize.

Howland Reed had never fired a scorpion before, but now seemed as good a time as any to learn. The previous operator had been kind enough to load the siege machine before he died, and so once he had dragged the man's body off, the only task left for Howland was to pull the trigger. _If I can get a clear shot at Volmark, _he thought sullenly, turning the scorpion about to face the _Leviathan's _captain and gazing down the shaft. After several adjustments, though, he finally had Delron's hulking figure squarely in the sights; only the two knights were blocking the shot.

"VANCE!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, his fingers ghosting over the trigger. "SNOW! GET CLEAR!"

Alyn and Barbrey paused mid-stroke, hesitating for half a moment before backing out of the way, leaving Volmark standing alone before the roaring blaze that was consuming his ship, broken and exhausted. When the captain saw the scorpion and realized what was happening, he tried to run, but with his injured leg, he was half a beat too slow. The bolt took him in the chest, punching through plate and leather and skin and bone before finally slamming to a halt when it hit the steel covering his back. Blood gushed from the hole, washing down Delron's breastplate in a scarlet sheet as he swayed, struggling to stand.

"What is dead…" he choked, even as crimson began to flow from the leviathan's roaring maw, "may never die." At that Delron Volmark fell backwards, landing in the fire behind him with a crash. The flames danced around his lifeless body, boiling the blood covering his grey steel armor in a hissing red cloud as the three men watched, their faces solemn.

After what seemed like an eternity, a hunter called Howland's name, leading the group to the war galley's prow, where a poleboat was waiting for them, along with Laren and the tarred bodies of the Ghosts of the Neck. Where they had boarded the ship with horn-blows and war-cries, they left her in silence, still watching as water rushed over her rails, gutting the raging fire and dragging the_ Leviathan_ and her dead crew into the Abyss, where the Marsh King's watery halls awaited.

* * *

**_A/N: Thank you all for your continuing support for this story! Chapter 3 featuring the POV of a favorite character of mine, will hopefully be out by the end of the month, and I have grand plans for what is to come. Please leave a review if you can; it's greatly appreciated, and seeing what I'm doing right or wrong is very helpful._**

**_-Imperium42_**


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, I owe everyone an apology. It's been (over) two months since I last updated, and my posting schedule is starting to resemble George RR Martin's, but not without reason. I got a good ways into this chapter before fall semester started, but from there, with constant work and the chaos of life in general, the rate of work being done plummeted to a few hundred words every weekend or so. To keep the wait for the full chapter from being even more painfully long, I have posted below what I've written so far, in what I hope makes for a solid Part One of Chapter 3. I have a lot of really awesome stuff in mind for Part Two, so hopefully I'll make progress on it more quickly, and have it out by Thanksgiving (no later than the winter solstice. I'm hoping to get a lot done over winter break).**

**SANDOR**

The Twins had become a slaughterhouse. Below the two castles, the proud soldiers of the North and the Trident were dropping like flies, cut down by Frey and Bolton men-at-arms as they fled, or burned alive in their tents; Sandor Clegane could barely hear himself think for the sound of screams and steel. _And I thought Joffrey could be brutal,_ he mused as he slid on his dog-head helm. _The Freys will burn in seven hells for this. _

"My brother…" Arya Stark was saying, standing from beneath the overturned wayn. The She-Wolf's eyes were wide, shimmering in the reflected light of a thousand fires.

"Dead," he snapped, scowling. _What the hell does she think is happening?_ "Do you think they'd slaughter his men and leave him alive?" He glanced again to the butchery in the camps, gesturing with the blood-soaked axe he had stolen. "Look. _Look, _damn you."

Even as he spoke, two knights bearing the banner of House Vypren rode down a fleeing Stark man-at-arms, their swords flashing downwards. The catapult on the roof of the castle above them _thrummed, _and a barrel of flaming pitch exploded atop a massive canvas pavilion flying the giant of Umber, engorging the blaze already consuming it. _So much fire, _Sandor was thinking with a shudder, when he realized with a start that the music had stopped; where a moment ago "The Rains of Castamere"had been booming from the West Castle above the sound of the massacre beneath it, now the hulking stone structure had gone eerily silent. Shaking it off, he turned back to Arya.

"Come with me." He extended a hand. "We have to get away from here, and now." Under him Stranger threw back his head, his nostrils flaring. The warhorse didn't want to linger a moment longer, and neither did Sandor; still, though, he held out his hand to the lost-looking little girl standing beneath him, waiting. _Getting yourself killed isn't worth her ransom, _part of him knew. _Run while you can, leave her if she wants to die with her brother. _And yet he lingered, as rain pattered on his helm and ran down Arya's long pale face, like tears.

"We're _here_," she insisted, her voice high and thin. She was about to say something else when a wave of riders broke upon the burning camp, bellowing warcries as they swarmed around tents and pavilions, swords and axes and spears poised to strike. _There must be a thousand of them_ he realized, his heart sinking. _We waited too long. There is no escape for us now._

"Get behind me." He barked, raising his axe and wheeling Stranger about. Arya obeyed, snatching a dagger from one of the men he had killed as she ran. Sandor Clegane almost chuckled at the sight. _At least we'll both die fighting, she and I, _he thought, steeling himself as a small group spotted them and broke off, bringing their horses to a canter as they approached the overturned wayn.

"And who would you be fighting for on this fine night?" Called their leader, a thin, lanky man as tall as Sandor, with an equally long, hooked bill in his hands. The silver eagle of Mallister was emblazoned on his surcoat, the same as the men who had ridden into the castle a while earlier, though Sandor didn't know if Lord Jason was one of the traitors, or true to the Young Wolf; he had seen Haighs, Charltons, and Vyprens taking place in the killing along with the Freys and Boltons, all vassals or close allies of Lord Walder.

"I might ask you the same." He finally retorted, bringing Stranger forward out of the gatehouse's shadow.

"For the one true king, Robb Stark," the man began, though he trailed off when he saw Sandor's helm, sucking in breath as the other riders in his group shouted in shock.

"It's the bloody Hound!"

"Kill him, Tom! Kill him!"

"Seven hells!"

"Lannister dog!"

_That's right, you cunts, be afraid,_ he thought, smiling crookedly under the helm. _Men who are afraid die easier._

The tall man sat in shocked silence for several moments, then surged forward quicker than Sandor could blink. His bill's hook found a chink in Sandor's armor at the shoulder and he pulled back hard; before he could swing his axe, he was tumbling from Stranger's back, landing on the wet ground face-first. Mud surged through the snarling steel dog's mouth and into his face, foul-tasting and rank with blood. He twisted onto his back, groping for his axe, but that only made the mud run into his eyes, stinging like hellfire. Then the tall man's bill was at his throat, his boot on his chest.

"Lyonel," he called, his eyes never once leaving Sandor's. _Smart man. Otherwise, I'd have already shoved that bill up your ass._ "Fetch Ser Martyn, tell him it's urgent."

A barrel-chested man with flaming red whiskers nodded, turning his own garron and galloping off towards the main camp. Once he had gone, the tall man tightened his grip on the bill's haft so hard that his knuckles turned white, his brows furrowing.

"Now tell me, Sandor Clegane, what the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"He was bringing me," Arya suddenly said, stepping out of the shadows before he could find the words. She walked slowly and cautiously, the stolen dagger raised as her eyes shifted from man to man. Several guffawed and sniggered, but the tall man remained relatively composed.

"Some farmer's daughter you made off with, Clegane? I didn't know you liked yours so young." The circle of riders around them roared with laughter at that, but the She-Wolf simply stamped her feet, red-faced and indignant.

"I'm not some farmer's daughter, you stupid, I'm Arya Stark of Winterfell! That's my brother and my mother being killed in there!" A hush fell over the men, and Sandor grinned despite himself. "You said you served King Robb," she continued after a long moment of silence, "so take me to him!"

The tall man was about to reply when another voice spoke up from behind him.

"Let me see your eyes, girl."

Blinking through the mud, Sandor shifted to watch as a brown-bearded man with the Tallhart sentinel trees on his armor stepped forward, the red-whiskered man at his side.

"What?" She lifted the dagger warily, pointing it towards him and stepping back.

"I just want to look at your eyes," he persisted, setting his sword flat on the ground and raising both hands in the air as he approached, "to be sure that you're telling the truth."

_Starks have grey eyes,_ he suddenly remembered. Lord Eddard's own had been the color of wrought steel, harsh and unyielding; they had grown wide with shock when Sandor joined the Gold Cloaks in cutting down his guardsmen before the Iron Throne. Arya's were only slightly softer, but they were often marred with loathing when she looked at him, the fiend who killed her precious butcher's boy. Sansa, though, was more Tully than Stark; her eyes were a deep blue, kinder and more beautiful, just as she was. In her chambers, while the Imp set fire to the Blackwater, he had lost himself in those eyes, for a moment wanting nothing more than to kiss his Little Bird then and there and stop her chirping. _I made her sing instead,_ he recalled bitterly. It all seemed a lifetime ago. In front of him, Arya slowly lowered the dagger, letting the Tallhart step forward, though she never sheathed it. The man took a knee, his plates sinking into the thick muck, and leaned forward, looking her dead in the eyes.

"Gods be good," the knight finally said, his head bowed, "Lady Arya…" A wave of murmuring rippled through the mounted soldiers; even the tall man looming over him looked awestruck. "My lady, we must needs get you far away from this madness as soon as possible. Someone, fetch a horse!"

"No, you don't!" She protested, crossing her arms. "My family is in there, we have to save them!"

"Lord Jason and his personal company of guards are saving His Grace and Lady Catelyn as we speak, my lady. They'll be alright, I promise you, but we have to keep you safe as well."

"No." Arya declared, implacable. "You'll take me in there this very moment, I command it, or else my brother will hear of this!" Sandor laughed aloud at that, ignoring the mud in his mouth. _Seven hells, the girl has spirit. Good thing her sister isn't so cocksure, or Joffrey would've had her pretty head off months ago._

"Very well." The knight replied grudgingly, turning to the tall man. "Long Tom, take your men and escort Lady Arya inside. Find her family, and try to avoid the fighting if you can help it." Then his gaze fell on Sandor, who was finally able to stand again, and his fatherly-looking features turned hard. "I have half a mind to cut you down where you stand," he said bluntly, "but I'd like to think that I'm an honorable man. You will go with Tom and the escort, and explain to Lady Catelyn exactly what you were doing with her daughter. You will await her judgment and the king's afterward. Rivers, bind him."

Before the tall man could move, Sandor took one huge step forwards and headbutted the Tallhart. The man's helm took the brunt of the blow, but one steel tooth caught on his lips and dragged downwards, splitting both of them.

"I will not be bound, old man." He snarled in tones that brokered no argument, as blood spilled into the knight's thick brown beard. To his credit, he never so much as flinched, meeting Sandor's eyes through the dog's head and responding calmly.

"You test me, Clegane. Do you want to die, is that the way of it? When you're so close to finally getting the ransom that you surely seek? If so, Long Tom would be happy to oblige you."

Sandor could feel the man with the bill moving up behind him, see the riders around them grasping their swordhilts, and suddenly the fight left him. He was tired of fighting.

"Fucking cunts," he muttered, holding out his hands. The tall man with the bill, whom the others called Long Tom, stepped around him and bound his wrists together with a length of hempen rope, eyeing Sandor warily as he worked. Smiling smugly even through his cut lips, the Tallhart knight retrieved his sword and mounted his horse again, a handsome grey palfrey.

"I'll join you in the castle as soon as we finish here." He called, pulling down his visor. "Good luck, Rivers."

After he galloped back into the main fray, Tom's men dismounted, three guarding Arya, three guarding Sandor, and the other eight spread out in a loose circle around them as they crossed the lowered drawbridge, their swords ready.

"He called you Rivers." Arya said, looking up at Long Tom. "Doesn't that mean you're a bastard?"

"Aye." He replied, smiling. "Tommard Rivers, if it please milady, but most just call me Long Tom. Some petty riverlord sworn to House Mallister had me on one of the castle maids while they were visiting Seagard, but for the life of her my mother can't remember if he was a Lolliston or a Keath, and Lord Jason didn't think it would be proper to go 'round asking. She turned me over to the captain of guards when I came of age, and I've been a soldier ever since."

Not a moment after he finished speaking, one of Sandor's guards fell with an arrow in his gullet, blood pouring from the wound onto the slick wet wood of the bridge and flying from his mouth when he tried to scream.

"Archers above!" Tom cried. "_Go!" _ Sandor lifted Arya into his arms (no easy feat with both hands bound), and the entire party broke into a sprint for the other side. Frey arrows continued to rain down on them from the West Castle's battlements as they ran, claiming two more men before they reached the portcullis and the inner chamber, panting. Just as Sandor set her back onto the floor, though, pain lanced though his shoulder, and he fell to one knee with a grunt.

"Murder hole! In the ceiling!" Someone shouted, before he went down with a quarrel in his chest. Another man had been killed after him by the time the red-whiskered man, Lyonel, was able to shoot the Frey defender through the hole with his own crossbow, bringing the escort force of fourteen down to nine.

"It looks like we may have need of your services after all, Clegane." Tom produced a rondel from his belt and quickly proceeded to slash Sandor's bonds, grudgingly handing him back his mud-covered axe.

"You're hurt." Arya pointed out, gesturing to the quarrel sticking from his shoulder. It hadn't penetrated deep, but blood was leaking from the wound all the same, flowing lazily down his arm and back and side.

"This is the bite of a flea." Sandor growled, snapping the quarrel's end off and pressing forwards ahead of the group, axe in hand. The great oaken doors to the main hall were closed, muffling the sounds within; before them, three Frey men-at-arms were falling on a Piper, a Stark, and a dying Vance, led by a knight whose steel plates bore the Charlton mistletoe. Breaking into a run, Long Tom Rivers shoved his bill's stabbing point through the nearest Frey's back; he had already wrenched it out and moved on to another when Sandor and the others caught up to him, making quick work of the common soldiers. The Charlton knight proved more resilient when they cornered him against the doors, killing one man and wounding two more before Arya slipped around him and drove her stolen dagger into the back of his knee. Sandor proceeded to brain the wounded man with his axe, while Lyonel pinned him to one door with a quarrel.

"Thank you," the Stark man gasped as the Piper rushed to the Vance's side, lowering a bloody carving knife. "By the gods, thank you… Ser Arryk, the Freys, we were drinking with them, laughing, and then they… Ser Marwyn…"

"They will pay for what they have done tonight." Tom declared, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "With blood and gold and honor, they will pay."

As the Vance died, Tom and the others wrenched open the opposite door; inside, the armored Mallister riders that had crossed the drawbridge earlier had dismounted, and were currently dragging Walder Frey bodily from his throne, despite the old man's feeble kicks and protests.

"It wasn't me," he was saying to the Mallister commander a, tall man whose long, dark hair spilled out the back of an eagle-head helm, "I swear it… Lame Lothar and Ryman, it was them, they forced me to go along, they threatened to kill me! They were conspiring with the Lannisters, and Roose Bolton too…"

The commander slapped Lord Walder hard across the face, making no attempt to hide the rage in his voice.

"Hold your lying tongue, traitor, lest I dirty my blade with the vile filth that flows through your veins in place of blood. Be grateful that King Robb will strike your head off as soon as he is able; I would not make your death so easy."

"Ser Torrhen!" Tom called, striding across the room at the head of the group, his bill in hand.

"Rivers?" The commander looked up from Lord Frey, recognition clear in his voice. Then he saw Sandor, and his sword sang as it slid from its sheath. "What is this, Tom? What in seven hells is _he _doing here?"

"Bringing you bloody northmen your she-wolf." Sandor threw back, gesturing to Arya.

Ser Torrhen froze, incredulous.

"…She-wolf?"

"Ser Torrhen," Tom declared, backing away to reveal the girl, "I give you Arya Stark, Princess of Winterfell."

Torrhen and his men stood dumbstruck, and the room fell silent but for Walder Frey.

"_Heh. Heh_. You say Arya Stark, I say some farmer's whelp."

Tommard scowled, and Torrhen's gauntleted hand came flashing down again, drawing blood this time, a weak trickle that flowed from bare pink gums.

"She has Lord Eddard's grey eyes; Ser Martyn Tallhart himself has confirmed it. Her legitimacy is not in question, Frey."

Lord Walder grinned a bloody, toothless grin.

"_Heh_. Grey eyes could mean a Stark, indeed, but they could also mean a Karstark, or a Flint, or a Bolton, or a Cerwyn… in fact, I seem to recall that grey eyes run in some branches of House Mallister. And here she is, brought back from the dead by Lord Jason's own men, _heh_. Isn't that convenient?"

"Gag him," Torrhen Mallister snarled through gritted teeth, glancing to one of his lieutenants, "and toss him in a cell with the others. I can't bear to have him in this room for another moment."

The man hurriedly complied, and Ser Torrhen turned to the ragged group below him once more.

"We've moved King Robb, Lady Catelyn, and any other survivors to Lord Walder's bedchambers; take some of my men and escort Lady Arya there at once - there may yet be Freys and Boltons lurking about on the lower floors."

Tom nodded, and once several Silver Eagles had joined their ranks, the group made for the door, a mob of steel-clad, bloodstained warriors with Arya Stark at their center.

"Not him." Torrhen called grimly as they turned to leave, gesturing to Sandor with his sword. "Not yet. Tommard, if you would?"

"With pleasure." Rivers replied from somewhere behind Sandor; exactly where, he could not tell with his helm donned. Swearing fiercely, he tried to draw his axe, but the throbbing pain in his shoulder slowed his reach, and the grip was slick with mud and gore. He had barely begun to turn when the bill's wooden handle crashed into the back of his helm, and the world went dark.


End file.
